No Longer the Only One of Its Kind
The forest bows to each, team after team,
and the lake is drawn
with whitecaps the same shade as dogwoods in a forest
of dark green water.
The day is passing in waves of horses.
She can hear them sure as if she’s a child again
in the woods with the sound of hooves
on hard ground between the roots
and flesh cutting air in running.
It fills her head like blood beats in her ears when her heart’s pounding.
She can almost see them when they enter the lake
to cross the water, tips of their ears and forelocks
surging above the surface.
They grow larger, closer, until they reach
where she stands on the shore.
They climb on land, invisible then, and with a breath
rush past her. They seem to move everything
but men and what men have made like the buildings of the city
until something breaks. The radio repeats:
the weather service has issued an advisory.
That afternoon she stays inside. When she closes her eyes,
she doesn’t realize she is dreaming even when she sees a woman’s skull,
doesn’t think she is sleeping
until she wakes herself, having snapped her teeth
or bitten her tongue.
The horses are the same shade as the moon’s surface,
as the horse in the myth
gone for so long.